Rambling Autobiography (This piece began as a "Rambling Autobiography" a couple of summers ago. I've revised it from time to time and expanded it. The language seems a bit stilted to me-- what do you think? I'd appreciate any feedback.)
Dad cloistered himself in his study, slaving over his dissertation for his PhD. The sun room, as his sacred tomb was called, was located in a remote corner of the house. The room's two exterior walls were windows (hence the name "sun room") while the two inner walls contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with every kind of publication imaginable. Though we kids were rarely allowed to enter the sun room, an exception was made for me when Daddy decided that dusting the bookshelves and cleaning their eclectic stock would be my job. It was a formidable task requiring that I teeter on a ladder while taking each book down off the shelf to wipe its binding inside and out with a soft cloth moistened with a mixture of vinegar and water to remove the mildew. I found the job tedious at first, arduous at best, but as I opened the books to wipe them, an occasional line would catch my eye and the reading journey would begin. This foray into my father's a bookshelf is what sparked my life-long love for books. To this day the heft of an old book in my hand and the musty smell that yellowed pages and cracked bindings emote take me back to my father's study where I discovered through his book collection a side of the man that I never knew existed. Many of the books were weighty engineering texts and manuals, but not all, for nestled among these volumes were my father's old schoolbooks from his high school years. Opening them and reading the schoolboy notes, doodles and poems--my father, the engineering doctoral candidate, wrote poetry?-- that he had written in the inside covers and margins revealed that my stern, scholarly father was once upon a time an irreverent, sometimes bawdy, even occasionally romantic, boy. He was human after all, possibly someone I would like if he sat next to me in a freshman English class. Our teachers, many of whom had taught my father, loved to extol his virtues to my siblings and me, proclaiming him a paragon of virtue we should emulate. Ah-ha! If only they had read the margins of his books they would have truly known the complex man I call my father. His secret was out, and I loved him all the more for it.
Take Two (A rewrite of the above piece, starting with a new first line)
To this day the heft of an old book in my hand and the musty smell that yellowed pages and cracked bindings emote take me back to my father's study, the place where I discovered through his book collection a side of the man that I never knew existed. Dad's study, located in a remote corner of the house was his private sanctum--no kids allowed. When in the vicinity of the study, my siblings and I had learned the hard way to tiptoe and keep our voices low. Under no circumstances were we to disturb Dad as he slaved over his doctoral dissertation. We had no idea what a "dissertation" was, but we knew that it was serious business: the future of the family depended on the work he did in that forbidden room. The door was almost always closed, but rare glimpses revealed what looked in many ways like a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with every kind of publication imaginable. It reeked, however, of stale cigarettes, cold coffee, and sweat from the hours my unshaven father spent cloistered there, huddled over his desk like a mad scientist over his creation. Though we kids were rarely allowed to enter the study, an exception was made for me when Dad decided that dusting the bookshelves and cleaning their eclectic stock would be my job. It was a formidable task requiring that I teeter on a ladder while taking each book down off the shelf to wipe its binding inside and out with a soft cloth moistened with a mixture of vinegar and water to remove the mildew. I found the job tedious at first, arduous at best, but as I opened the books to wipe them, an occasional line would catch my eye and the reading journey would begin. This foray into my father's a bookshelf is what sparked my life-long love for books. Many of the books were weighty engineering texts and manuals, but not all, for nestled among these volumes were my father's old schoolbooks from his high school years. Opening them and reading the schoolboy notes, doodles and poems--my father, the engineering doctoral candidate, wrote poetry?-- that he had written in the inside covers and margins revealed that my stern, scholarly father was once upon a time an irreverent, sometimes bawdy, even occasionally romantic, boy. He was human after all, possibly someone I would like if he sat next to me in a freshman English class. Our teachers, many of whom had taught my father, loved to extol his virtues to my siblings and me, proclaiming him a paragon of virtue we should emulate. Ah-ha! If only they had read the margins of his books they would have truly known the complex man I call my father. His secret was out, and I loved him all the more for it.
Camera Writing
Squatting in the center of the commons, shingled-roofed, faded and shabby, it patiently awaits students in search of shade. Few people come, and those who do rarely linger beneath its canopy. Its purpose has never been clear, and only the ants seem to appreciate what it offers.
Six-Room Poem
Confined to a concrete island
trapped between a looming pole and weary lilies . . .
What were they thinking?
Why must you endure those chatty birds and the droning machines that surround you,
you who by nature are so serene and pensive?
Rust-colored leaves exposed to the glaring sun,
ferny and small,
sheltering a stone,
a jewel amid hideous hedges
with no room to grow.
Six-Word Memoir
Rambling Autobiography (This piece began as a "Rambling Autobiography" a couple of summers ago. I've revised it from time to time and expanded it. The language seems a bit stilted to me-- what do you think? I'd appreciate any feedback.)
Dad cloistered himself in his study, slaving over his dissertation for his PhD. The sun room, as his sacred tomb was called, was located in a remote corner of the house. The room's two exterior walls were windows (hence the name "sun room") while the two inner walls contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with every kind of publication imaginable. Though we kids were rarely allowed to enter the sun room, an exception was made for me when Daddy decided that dusting the bookshelves and cleaning their eclectic stock would be my job. It was a formidable task requiring that I teeter on a ladder while taking each book down off the shelf to wipe its binding inside and out with a soft cloth moistened with a mixture of vinegar and water to remove the mildew. I found the job tedious at first, arduous at best, but as I opened the books to wipe them, an occasional line would catch my eye and the reading journey would begin. This foray into my father's a bookshelf is what sparked my life-long love for books. To this day the heft of an old book in my hand and the musty smell that yellowed pages and cracked bindings emote take me back to my father's study where I discovered through his book collection a side of the man that I never knew existed. Many of the books were weighty engineering texts and manuals, but not all, for nestled among these volumes were my father's old schoolbooks from his high school years. Opening them and reading the schoolboy notes, doodles and poems--my father, the engineering doctoral candidate, wrote poetry?-- that he had written in the inside covers and margins revealed that my stern, scholarly father was once upon a time an irreverent, sometimes bawdy, even occasionally romantic, boy. He was human after all, possibly someone I would like if he sat next to me in a freshman English class. Our teachers, many of whom had taught my father, loved to extol his virtues to my siblings and me, proclaiming him a paragon of virtue we should emulate. Ah-ha! If only they had read the margins of his books they would have truly known the complex man I call my father. His secret was out, and I loved him all the more for it.
Take Two (A rewrite of the above piece, starting with a new first line)
To this day the heft of an old book in my hand and the musty smell that yellowed pages and cracked bindings emote take me back to my father's study, the place where I discovered through his book collection a side of the man that I never knew existed. Dad's study, located in a remote corner of the house was his private sanctum--no kids allowed. When in the vicinity of the study, my siblings and I had learned the hard way to tiptoe and keep our voices low. Under no circumstances were we to disturb Dad as he slaved over his doctoral dissertation. We had no idea what a "dissertation" was, but we knew that it was serious business: the future of the family depended on the work he did in that forbidden room. The door was almost always closed, but rare glimpses revealed what looked in many ways like a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with every kind of publication imaginable. It reeked, however, of stale cigarettes, cold coffee, and sweat from the hours my unshaven father spent cloistered there, huddled over his desk like a mad scientist over his creation. Though we kids were rarely allowed to enter the study, an exception was made for me when Dad decided that dusting the bookshelves and cleaning their eclectic stock would be my job. It was a formidable task requiring that I teeter on a ladder while taking each book down off the shelf to wipe its binding inside and out with a soft cloth moistened with a mixture of vinegar and water to remove the mildew. I found the job tedious at first, arduous at best, but as I opened the books to wipe them, an occasional line would catch my eye and the reading journey would begin. This foray into my father's a bookshelf is what sparked my life-long love for books. Many of the books were weighty engineering texts and manuals, but not all, for nestled among these volumes were my father's old schoolbooks from his high school years. Opening them and reading the schoolboy notes, doodles and poems--my father, the engineering doctoral candidate, wrote poetry?-- that he had written in the inside covers and margins revealed that my stern, scholarly father was once upon a time an irreverent, sometimes bawdy, even occasionally romantic, boy. He was human after all, possibly someone I would like if he sat next to me in a freshman English class. Our teachers, many of whom had taught my father, loved to extol his virtues to my siblings and me, proclaiming him a paragon of virtue we should emulate. Ah-ha! If only they had read the margins of his books they would have truly known the complex man I call my father. His secret was out, and I loved him all the more for it.
Camera Writing
Squatting in the center of the commons, shingled-roofed, faded and shabby, it patiently awaits students in search of shade. Few people come, and those who do rarely linger beneath its canopy. Its purpose has never been clear, and only the ants seem to appreciate what it offers.Six-Room Poem
Confined to a concrete islandtrapped between a looming pole and weary lilies . . .
What were they thinking?
Why must you endure those chatty birds and the droning machines that surround you,
you who by nature are so serene and pensive?
Rust-colored leaves exposed to the glaring sun,
ferny and small,
sheltering a stone,
a jewel amid hideous hedges
with no room to grow.